


in which hate happens

by plummuffins



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Human Castiel, M/M, i think, it's angsty, probably, um some blood
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-15
Updated: 2013-11-15
Packaged: 2018-01-01 16:18:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 713
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1045953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plummuffins/pseuds/plummuffins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>this is basically dean being a bitch</p>
            </blockquote>





	in which hate happens

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Xailey](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xailey/gifts).



It was the way his hair smelled after he took a shower. That was it.

Dean would be lying in bed and Castiel would slip in next to him after a long day and an even longer shower. Sometimes they would fuck, slow and passionate or wild and desperate, but tonight they didn’t. Dean simply lay in bed with Cas curled into his side. He could smell the shampoo they shared on the ex-angel’s hair, the way it mixed with the _smell_ of the Castiel, creating a different, comforting aroma. That’s what he hated most about Cas, he realized. Or perhaps it was the other things he would notice: the way Cas would snore ever so slightly, or even the way he could always cook Dean’s breakfast _exactly_ the way he liked it.

The hunter slipped away from his sleeping lover, gently getting out of bed and padding down the hall, as silently as he could, hoping he didn’t disturb Sam, into the bunker’s library. He stood for a moment staring at all of the books, half dusty still from disuse, and his eyes settling on the leather chair by a lamp. That was Cas’ favourite reading chair. The fallen angel would curl up on it, a frown creasing his forehead, his tongue caught between his teeth as he focused on a good plot. Dean was sure he hated Cas for _that_ , too. Probably even more.

Sighing, he walked from there to the exit of the bunker, slipping outside and taking a deep breath of the night air. He wandered his eyes along the dark treetops, along the heaven-less stars, and he found himself staring at the Impala, remembering the times he and Cas had sex in the back seat.

The front seat.

The roof of the car.

He remembered teaching the fallen angel to drive; how nervous Cas was that he would somehow crash. He didn’t crash, though. He drove perfectly. Dean hated that.

The hunter turned, punching his fist into the wall of the bunker. He didn’t care that it hurt. He only stopped punching when he heard a bone snap, the searing pain making it neigh impossible to hold a fist. He stared down at his bleeding hand, remembering the times when Castiel had healed him when he was broken and bleeding. But Cas couldn’t heal him with magic anymore, no. Instead he was healing Dean from the inside out; taking all the tattered pieces, that Dean had let be torn to shreds by every person he allowed himself to care for, and sewing them up with every kiss, every gentle touch.

A ragged sob slipped from his lips and he fell to the ground, cradling his broken hand with his other, and leaning his head against the hard concrete. Another sob slipped from his lips and he was soon wailing, throwing his head back to scream at the empty stars. The aches of everything he had lost, of everyone he had thrown away—all of it. It had been building inside of him for so long; the unacknowledged heartbreak, the fears. He dug his finger nails into his injured hand, adding to the throbbing as best he could, rocking himself.

At first he didn’t feel the hands brush his shoulders, or the arms that encircled his waist from behind. He didn’t hear the gentle murmurs or notice the kisses on his neck. What he noticed was the smell of shampoo, mixed with the faded smell of stardust, and his body shook. He let himself go limp, falling back against those arms. His wailing turned to whimpers and his hand _hurt_. But the arms lifted him, up gentle and sure. He buried his face between a collar bone and a stubbly chin, the tears not stopping even as the fallen angel carried him inside. He felt Cas fixing him again and he _hated_ it. He hated it as his mess of a hand was carefully bandaged, soft kisses easing the ache. He hated it when no questions were asked—only acceptance was given. He hated Cas as he was carried to bed and held in the only arms which felt like home.

Castiel _loved_ Dean, loved him as much as Dean _needed_ Castiel. And that’s what he hated the most.

**Author's Note:**

> well i hope it was good for you  
> it was good for me


End file.
